Waiting Games
by Lovethemess
Summary: The room was wet and cold- any semblance of comfort had been stripped at that point. Alfred and Matthew survived as best as they could in that cell with the two-way mirror, bloodied and broken. What else could their captor take? How else could they be stripped bare? They didn't want to know... TW: captivity, blood, off-screen violence, torture, non-con, non-con voyeurism, incest


The room was wet and cold- doubly so with the lack of clothes. Any semblance of comfort had been stripped at that point, except for the grody yoga mat laid out on the floor. It, itself, wasn't much better than the bare concrete, just as dirty, covered in any number of stains and substances. Matthew didn't even want to guess. The smell, those first few days, had given him some clues; if there was one thing to be thankful for in this hellhole, it was that he'd at least gone a little nose-blind.

By the way Alfred habitually dug his nose into his shoulder, pressing it- wet with blood and snot- against his throat, his brother wasn't quite so lucky. He couldn't bring himself to complain. At least he was there, with him again.

For a time, they'd been separated- forced into separate corners of the brightly-lit cell and leashed to the wall. Drugged to the point of near-incoherence in Matthew's case, to the point of utter weakness in Al's, they'd been forced to watch each other's dark spots- bruises and cuts- slowly scab over and heal- then eventually, not heal.

How long it had taken for that frightening shift to happen, he had no idea.

He couldn't remember anything clearly anymore; that night, before all of this, was just a blur.

A meeting? A movie? A night pulling England out of the bar again?

Al had been able to fill in details at one point, early on, when he'd still been grinning, cracking jokes, planning, looking for the reason behind the madness, all of which had slowly grown more rare after the arguments, the third/fourth/fifth Alfred-led attempt to get them out. After the fingers, the red welts, the rags and water and cables.

After the strange, sudden drowsiness- closing one's eyes only to open them again with the other missing, wondering how long it would last, wondering if eventually one of them wouldn't come back at all.

The realization that he hadn't left the cell in a long time.

That his brother had been missing more 'mornings' than not.

That every time Alfred came back he was just a little quieter, and eventually a little less likely to move at all.

Matthew's fingers, still sporting blisters from his last 'appointment', rested on Alfred's head, curled through the dirty strands. They dug in for a quick moment before tapping out the shortest of messages, at once comfort, and communication, and one thing to hide from the fucker behind the double-sided mirror- their best tool for survival in this waiting game.

'a-n-t'

He waited for a response- the next word of the game- running his fingers absently through Alfred's hair, knowing he may not get one.

He was almost ready to try again when the voice invaded through the speaker, grating and rough to his ears- altered to disguise the individual pitches and tones, a mask as effective as the one hiding their captor's face, save those hazel eyes.

Often it was inane comments or snippets of out-of-tune songs, occasionally followed by laughter. Worse were the commands, which came through occasionally. It was better, they'd learned, to follow them- no matter how nonsensical they were.

Or how cruel.

If they didn't, something worse always followed.

They'd learned that quickly.

Alfred tensed against his side, muscles as tight as his own, as he realized a command was soon to follow. They were prepared to move, to jump, punch and bite and bear the same in turn. At least, as much as their bodies now allowed.

This time though, when the word finally came through, Matthew's stomach lurched. He squeezed his eyes together, pretending he hadn't heard them. Alfred's head pushed into his shoulder, as if he could escape through Matthew's skin and tissue and bones.

The command came again, lilting this time, followed by a question. The words filtered through his mind, the dark implications marching through, stomping with cleated boots, and Matthew moved, turning to face Alfred. Looked him in the eyes, begging forgiveness.

Something worse _always_ followed.

He winced as his knees slid off of the yoga mat, scraping on the bare concrete. The small pool of liquid burned against the scratches left unhealed.

Alfred's eyes widened, glancing towards the mirror before tracking Matthew's again, a war going on behind the blue- a war Matthew side was losing.

Matthew tried to push down the sick feeling rising in his gut. Could you regret something before it had even been done?

It wasn't as if they'd never touched, like that. They knew each other well, after so many years. The world's populations may have been shocked, but for the nation's themselves… well, it just wasn't spoken of, either way.

An unspoken rule: look the other way.

Clenching his eyes and his fists and the pang in his chest, he surged forward and met Alfred's lips before he could change his mind. They were warm and rough and eventually moved against his own.

It wasn't difficult to press together; the cold and distress of the cell had already made it necessary (though not this intimately), and their bodies had always seemed to match, to link perfectly together anyway. Some of the tension eased out of his shoulders as the familiar lines melded against his.

And then Alfred's lips slid lazily past his, and his head dipped to the side, landing against Matthew's shoulder. His fevered brow was too-warm against Matthew's skin, even taking into account the chill in the room, and suddenly all Matthew could think of was if they _could_ do this, let alone should. If _Alfred_ could do this, and god he never thought Alfred's strength would be something he'd have to worry about- not in this way. Still, after a moment there was a whisper against his ear, audible only to him, "You always make my head spin, Mattie."

A small flutter of relief lifted Matthew's lips into a smile. Any reappearance of Alfred's words, of Alfred's spirit, was a balm. The smile slacked into a groan when Alfred's lips moved once again against his ear, when the lips pulled back to allow nibbling teeth.

He hesitated before nudging Alfred back, the logistics of the matter racing through his mind. Exhaustion and pain and hunger were eating at them both. Easing Alfred back down onto the ground, he prayed this would be enough for the voyeuristic fucker.

Matthew paused though, when he looked down, all thoughts dropping aside. Alfred's hair, having been due for a haircut when their nightmare started, having grown out slightly from their time in the cell, spread out around his head, like a halo of gold.

Like better times.

One late spring day, Alfred's suntanned body lazily stretched out on a bright beach-towel, the Miami sun high over the two of them.

It was a sharp contrast to now, as Alfred shivered with his back against the darkened rubber of the mat, skin bearing strips of bubbling red from the last time Matthew had woken up alone in the cell, marks littering his neck, his arms, his chest. His eyes betrayed him, anxiety just as responsible for the sharp movement as the cold was. He whimpered, just a barest of sounds before catching himself, embarrassment rushing red over his cheeks.

It sent a spike through Matthew's gut. He knelt in closer, stretching across Alfred to shield him as best he could, hiding the shreds of their modesty from prying eyes. "Shh," he gentled, running his fingers through Alfred's hair, and kissed him again. Still, guilt reared its head with each small jerk of Alfred's core.

_Always_ something worse, he reminded himself.

'This was the best option', he thought. It was only sex, after all.

He kept telling himself that.

Maybe eventually he'd believe it.

He started slowly again, one kiss at a time. Chapped lips meeting chapped lips in a heady dance that soon let them almost forget the cold of the space, the stink of the mat, the liquid that dripped down along the gray walls.

The eyes staring intently.

And Alfred slowly loosened against him, sending fingers to play along his side, brushing against his ribs, before pulling him closer.

They sunk into each other, chasing heat and closeness as much as anything else

And then the voice piped in from above- a low, rumbled moan.

Alfred froze, his eyes wide and growing distant, going to somewhere beyond this room, something in them fading. And another sort of heat flooding Matthew's system, white-hot anger bubbling up, for that voice and those damned hazel eyes.

For himself, as he prepared to push on, despite it all.

He gripped Alfred's face, pulling his head towards his own and stared at his drifting eyes.

"Focus on me", he whispered, staring into Alfred's eyes, "Not the prick behind the mirror".

The ferocity of the words, so strange for Matthew's tongue, pulled at Alfred's focus, drawing him into Matthew's realm of influence once again. Something eased out of Matthew's chest at the clearing in Alfred's eyes and he kissed him, on the cheeks, the lips, across his fevered head, softer yet even more insistent than before. "He isn't even there. Not there at all."

Despite this, Matthew was having issues forgetting. On not feeling the icy shiver up his back at the thought of cold hazel eyes staring, black leather gloves…

He pushed forward, against Alfred's lips once again. They parted, allowing Alfred's tongue room to dart out, teasing, pulling Matthew closer with a spike of desire.

Matthew let his hands drift over Alfred's stomach, counting out the scars that littered his torso, trying to remember, to focus on the ones that had been there _before_. It was more difficult than it should have been, even as well as he'd mapped Alfred out in the past. There were so many, and the new ones linked to the old, as if that bastard was trying to undo Alfred, one old hurt at a time.

His own scars hadn't had such a treatment.

He only spent a moment on that puzzle, brain trying to piece together the ever-present inconsistencies, eyebrows furrowing tighter and tighter, before forcing that thought away and letting a hand drift lower, over the last small curve that remained on Alfred's belly.

Alfred's lips curved upwards against his own.

When the voice came back, his lips only tightened for a moment in a surprised grimace.

The trembling in his arms lasted longer, only beginning to ease after Matthew stroked his hands up and down his skin.

They tried to forget, for the moment the hurts and strains, focusing on each other instead. The rising tension and growing inevitability. They weren't in this cold gray world, but a million different places instead- under the stars with the grass tickling their sides, wrapped in the familiar worn quilt that sat on the end of Matthew's bed, pressed into pile of cushions Al had arranged in the corner of his movie room. Anywhere but here.

Losing themselves, for just that moment.

When, some time later, Matthew opened his eyes again, the world was silent aside from beating hearts and panting breaths, and Alfred's left arm was tight around him. Matthew shivered, despite that; the room was cold once again, the air a cold biting around them.

Alfred pressed his nose against Matthew's head, shaking as well.

The world around them slowly came back- the concrete walls rising up around them, the filthy mat under his head, the slimy film against his feet.

The mirror spread across one wall.

Matthew squeezed his eye shut as time began again, disgust pooling in his core.

The air prickled at his bare skin, and suddenly the accumulated streaks of dirt and grime clinging to his skin pulled with every movement, every breath; the reminders of their actions, sweat and otherwise, added just one more layer. Worse was the feeling, the knowledge, that somehow that dirt had soaked through his pores, sinking further and further in to make another layer on the inside, one he'd never be able to touch.

Why else would his heart feel so soiled?

Sensing the shift, evidently, Alfred's fingers curled against his own, the cold tips threading through to press their way into his palms. Their hands were filthy, the shade all wrong, and on Alfred's chest, just past Matthew's now-open eyes, were new lines of dirt where Matthew's fingers had pressed into his skin.

And, at that moment, something loosened in Matthew's chest with a crack, and a sharp stuttering inhale of breath.

"Mattie?" Alfred's voice was low, barely even a whisper. He tightened his hold.

But it was too late. Too late to stop the cracking. Too late to stop the wet warmth on Matthew's cheek.

Too late to fix this mess.

Too late to keep this small thing safe.

His eyes lingered over the bubbling red lines across Alfred's chest, intersected now by grime.

Too late for a lot of things.

He lay there, staring into Alfred's chest (at those dark lines) letting the seconds and minutes and hours accumulate.

His eyelids fluttered at the series of soft taps against his neck and the soft exhale of breath.

'b-e-e'

* * *

:Author's Note: So this is actually a tamed-down edit I made to publish on FFN- the full version is up on Ao3 (same username over there) if you want to see that. It's not much longer- but definitely more nsfw. Although I've had something like this kicking around in my head for the year or so, I hadn't ever intended to actually write it. And then my brain decided after a rough week that enough was enough and it needed to vent... so this happened. Hope it sounded okay? I admit to being new to this sort of content (the rougher elements of it- not the fanfic or Hetalia aspect), but I did my best. Constructive crit more than welcome- emphasis on the constructive part. I.e. don't be a dick. Thanks for reading.


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